


Late

by romanticalgirl



Category: Dawson's Creek
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 5/20/02</p>
    </blockquote>





	Late

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 5/20/02

It's late.

She knows without looking at the clock to see the time, or the window to see that the sun is down. She knows because it's always late anymore.

Sighing, she gets to her feet, pushing away from the plush couch and forcing herself to walk into the kitchen. The food is sitting there, fully cooked, fully prepared. Old now. There's a thin crust on the potatoes and the lettuce is wilted. The chicken is dry. Pulling out plastic wrap, she covers it all and sticks it in the refrigerator, moving the other full bowls around to make room.

Snapping off the kitchen lights, she moves back into the living room. There's a fire in the hearth, snapping and crackling as it dies slowly. The steel rod sends a shower of sparks raining down, but it can't keep it burning. She readies it for the night, wondering in the back of her mind what it would be like to just let it burn.

Light fills the room as a car pulls into the driveway. She stops, expectant, like a deer caught in headlights, wondering when the hit will come. It shifts, the light pulling back, pulling away as the car backs out, turning and heading the way it had come.

Sighing, she starts moving once again, fluffing the pillows on the couch, making sure no wrinkles mar the cushions. By the time she finishes, it's as if no one has been there, no one lives there. Just space, made hollow by time and sadness.

She's hollow.

Dimming the light, she walks down the hallway to the bedroom. The bedside lamp burns a burnished gold, giving the room an illusion of warmth. She undresses slowly, placing her clothes on the bed until she's done, then carrying the armload over to the hamper. She'll have to do laundry tomorrow. Darks. Lights. In betweens.

Naked, she walks to the bed and pulls the covers back, her hand stroking the soft blue of the comforter. She'd bought it herself, happy with the purchase as she'd spread it out on the bed, teasing him about breaking it in. Christening it.

She pushes it out of the way now, the gray sheets sliding back as well. They're cool to the touch as she slips between them, her head resting on the feather pillows. She pulls the covers back up, almost to her chin and reaches out to turn off the light.

He's used to the dark.

She closes her eyes, wanting to fall into the oblivion of sleep, but knowing that she won't. Can't. She lies there motionless, breathing shallow as she listens to the night, to the sounds.

An hour later, there's a clock now glowing red and angry, she hears the crunch of gravel, sees the shadows pushed away by the headlights. This time the engine dies and more noises follow.

Footsteps. Keys. The door closes quietly, but she still hears it. His feet move across the carpet silently, but she feels them. The refrigerator door opens, the plate and silverware clink on the counter. Her hand tightens around the covers she holds against her, warding off the chill that emanates from inside her.

The microwave whirs and dings and she hears him curse softly as he pulls the too hot plate from the carousel. She wonders briefly which meal he's eating. It's Thursday, there are four for him to choose from. The fork rises and falls, she can hear it as it hits the plate each time, spearing meat or potatoes or something that she'd spent time on. Something that had sat on the table or the counter for hours, waiting for him to come home and eat it.

He rinses off the plate, a habit she knows he learned young and just hasn't been able to break. She's grown used to the strange thumping sound the dishwasher door makes when it closes, so she doesn't start at it. Doesn't move as the light flicks off and darkness completes itself.

She watches him, her eyes adjusted, as he walks into the room. He's shedding clothes beside the bed, kicking them in the direction of the hamper. She doesn't feel anything, knowing that in the morning he'll put them away. Another habit he learned young.

He slides into bed beside her, kissing her shoulder. "Goodnight," he whispers, and she wonders briefly if he really believes she's asleep or if he's just going along with the charade. He settles onto his back, his duty done, and sighs, closing his eyes as he relaxes, stretches.

She waits until the soft noises stop, the groans and tensions released into the air around him. His breathing evens out quickly and she turns over, saying nothing as he raises his arm and lets her cuddle against his chest.

She lays there for a few minutes, her fingers idly stroking his chest. His nipples harden and she can feel the subtle shift of fabric as his body reacts to her touch. She scrapes a nail over one nipple and he gasps quietly. Biting her lower lip, she lets her hand slide down his body, smoothing it around his cock.

Her tongue snakes out and flicks across his nipple and his body rises off the bed, falling back to the mattress in perfect time with her strokes. She covers his length, stroking the velvety flesh from the base to the tip several times before bringing her hand up and concentrating on short, shallow movements that focus on the sensitive ridge of the head.

He's gasping as her tongue continues teasing his nipple, thrusting up into her hand as she sweeps her thumb over the tip. Moisture clings to her hand as it moves and she can feel his muscles continue to tighten.

He doesn't speak, barely makes any noise unless she neglects his nipple for a while then tastes it again, and then he'll gasp or groan. She does it time and again, loving the feel of power she experiences every time he comes off the bed.

She shifts slightly, moving off her free hand, bringing it up to support the wrist of the hand moving over his cock. His breathing is strained now, sharp inhalations as he edges closer to his climax. She can feel his body tensing beside hers, feel it growing taut. He shoves the covers away, pushes them off his body as he lifts slightly off the bed and grunts under his breath.

Her hand keeps moving, feeling the blood and semen pulse through his shaft. She coaxes it from his body, letting it pool on his stomach, tangle in the dark hairs there. Eventually her hand slows and he lets his breath out in one long sigh. She releases him and he shudders, even though he knows that it will happen, even though it happens almost every night.

He lays there for a moment longer before getting off the bed and making his way to the bathroom, cleaning up the mess she's made. He shuts the door so the light doesn't blind her, so it doesn't keep her awake. As always, as soon as his body leaves the mattress, she turns over onto her side, facing away from the light before it comes on.

He comes back to the bed quickly, never flushing the toilet, just in case she's fallen asleep. She stays still, her eyes closed as he kisses her shoulder once more then turns away from her, the covers around his chin now as he settles easily into a satisfied sleep.

It's almost always a half hour later, when she knows he's sleeping, can hear him snoring behind her, that she shifts on the bed, no longer pretending to be asleep. Her fingers slip between her legs, finding the heat at the apex of her thighs.

Tonight, the tears are back, stinging her eyes as she closes them, finding her clit out of habit, needing something to reduce the heat inside her. She wants him, but he never seems to want her, and the heat that touching him enflames inside her won't abate until she's slaked it with her own fingers. Wanting his.

She fantasizes, about him making love to her, about other men, other women. She makes up stories in her head to bring herself to the point of breaking, her whole body tensing until it's released and she can close her eyes and turn over, ignoring the wet spot beneath her.

She closes her eyes to the red numbers on the clock, glaring the time at her.

It's late.

Too late.


End file.
